


To be Reborn

by Blazonix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Added that one by request, Dissociation, Mindfuck, Not Epilogue Compliant, sealed flames have quite the effect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12679725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blazonix/pseuds/Blazonix
Summary: Harry meets The Man in the Suit with the Hat, and it changes his life forever even if he doesn't remember it. A desperation to live has him search for answers in all the wrong places.





	1. Chapter 1

His name is Harry Potter, and he is five years old. Sometimes he forgets his name—Aunt and Uncle always call him Boy—but he’s getting better at remembering now that he goes to school. His teachers always get upset when he doesn’t respond right away, and that kind of upsets him too.

He knows he shouldn’t upset adults, but it’s hard when he’s scared. It’s even harder when his cousin grabs him and shoves things down his pants. His screams only make Dudley laugh and the teacher frown.

It’s not all bad though. He’s been promised a slice of bacon with his toast if he behaves himself. He’d really like his breakfast to include bacon for once. He’s never had it before. It smells good though!

He’s wandering around the neighborhood after school when he meets The Man in the Suit with the Hat.

A man in a suit shouldn’t be a strange sight, even Uncle Vernon wears one, but there is something distinctly…distinct about the way this man wears a suit. It’s almost like the stranger is a shadow, one made at the end of a day.

“Chaos,” The Man says while looming over him.

He opens his mouth. He tries to say “What?” and instead makes a sound resembling a frog from the garden. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he snaps his mouth shut. He stares up at The Man whose eyes are hidden beneath the brim of a hat.

“So young,” The Man snorts, “and so innocent. Truly a perfect lamb.”

He keeps staring at where he thinks The Man’s eyes are. His legs won’t move and neither will his mouth. His hands are shaking. He has no idea what’s going on.

(Later, he will realize that he is afraid. Not like at school or when Uncle Vernon comes home in a bad mood. He is afraid like a lamb before a lion. Death stands before him. He is terrified.)

“Listen up No-good Harry,” The Man purrs dangerously, “you’re a bright kid, but that’s going to get you killed.”

The Man reaches for him faster than he can blink. A finger pokes his forehead before sliding towards his scar. He doesn’t dare move let alone breathe.

“Things will be hard,” The Man says, “but this will keep you from burning to death.”

The last thing he sees before falling asleep is a bright, yellow light. Despite everything, he finds the light to be warm and soothing. It dances beneath his eyelids and calls to something deep inside him.

When he wakes it’s to the familiarity of his cupboard. He rubs his forehead and wonders if The Man in the Suit with the Hat carried him home. He hopes this doesn’t count against his bacon. He doesn’t think Aunt Petunia will be nice enough though.

Years pass and the memory of that moment fades away. While The Man in the Suit with the Hat, along with the warm light, gets pushed to the back of his mind, sometimes on sunny days, he stops and tilts his head to the sky, looking for something. He gets an aversion to black suits and fedoras though he only has a vague idea why.

The letters start showing up, and he stops looking at the sky.

He is eleven, and he’s just killed a man. Well, he’s not technically responsible for killing Quirrell; Voldemort lowered the axe when the spirit left the man’s body. Still, he can’t seem to shake off the screams of his once professor. He’s unable to stop himself from remembering the way the man’s face just seemed to burn.

(Something inside of him cracks just a little bit.)

It’s fine, he tells himself, Dumbledore said it was all fine.

The stone is fine, his friends are fine, and he’s fine. He’s got a feast to go to.

He’s twelve, and he’s just killed a basilisk and a memory. The basilisk was terrifying, but it is the screams of a ghostly Tom Riddle that stay with him. He knows he did the right thing. Ginny is safe, Voldemort can’t come back, and Hermione and Ron smile at him on the train ride home.

Still, he feels a little…out of sorts. Sometimes it feels like he’s stuck dying, and sometimes it feels like he’s still wielding Gryffindor’s sword while running down a dark tunnel.

(The crack widens just a bit more.)

It’s probably nothing.

He’s thirteen, and he’s furious. At Pettigrew, at Fudge, at the dementors, at himself—he’s the angriest he’s ever remember being. He had been so close to getting away from the Dursleys and having a real and proper home with his godfather. A home that could have been everything he’s ever wanted; one filled with love, food, and support.

It’s all ashes to the wind now. His desire to not have blood on his hands has only ended in more suffering, not only for himself but for Sirius too.

(That fracturing piece gets bigger.)

He rubs his forehead as Ron and Hermione try to soothe him. He manages a strained smile for them. The smile soon becomes real when a tiny owl carrying a letter arrives.

He is fourteen, and he is responsible for the return of Voldemort. He is responsible for the death of Cedric Diggory. He is responsible for a lot of things, but these two events hit him the hardest.

He spends his days on edge and cut off from the only part of the world that matters to him. There are no letters with “It’s not your fault” or “How are you” written inside; Hermione and Ron have only written vague letters with a promise to talk later.

The curling fear of being attacked at any moment is constantly upon him. He pretends that memories of the graveyard aren’t overtaking his thoughts. He is fine; he just needs news.

(The crack is long and deep now, ready to completely break.)

His mind keeps going back to Cedric who had a whole life ahead of him, an innocent victim to Voldemort’s cruel schemes. Truly a perfect lamb, his mind whispers.

He is fifteen, and he has unwittingly killed his godfather.

Crucio

Sirius is—

Crucio

His godfather is—

Crucio

It’shisfault—No,it’sherfault—WhySiriuswhy—

His Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix fails. Voldemort shows up in dark, deformed glory, and Dumbledore arrives to save the day. It’s too late, he thinks. He is beyond saving. Voldemort possesses him and tries to crush his soul.

A warm light that shines like the sun fills him when he thinks of Sirius, and in the end, it is the memory of his godfather that saves him.

(It doesn’t matter. He shatters into thousands of little pieces. He is broken.)

He rages and screams. He learns about the prophecy and screams some more. Everyone thinks he’ll be okay given enough time and space. It’s almost hilarious at how little everyone seems to care about his emotional well-being.

He wonders if he was ever “just Harry” to anyone.

He is sixteen, and he has a job to do. Dumbledore is dead; it’s probably his fault. Still, he can’t bring himself to hate Malfoy the same way he hates Bellatrix. His anger towards Draco and Snape are more of a temporary thing, nothing like the sheer fury that fills him when it comes to Bellatrix or Voldemort.

It’s probably not healthy to feel this way, but aside from Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, rage is probably the only thing keeping him going at this point.

(His friends don’t realize he’s broken, no one does.)

He makes his plans with the Order and his other set of plans with his best friends. He grips his wand tightly with a grim face. He’s a soldier now; he fights for the only things he has left.

He is seventeen, and he dies.

For a moment, he is free. Onwards beckons him in exhilarating splendor. Then the faces of his friends flash before him. The memory of Dumbledore gives him a knowing look.

His bonds tether him to the world of the living, and he still has a job to do. The train station disappears in warm, soothing light. He wakes up.

(There’s something there, lurking among the shards. He wants to face the sky, but it’s not possible at this moment.)

He kills Voldemort, finishing the job. He buries a Hallow and uses the remaining one to hide away. It’s a long week, filled with cleaning up and burials.

He waits for his normal life to begin even as Ginny begins planning their life together. He waits even as Hermione and Ron leave to find her parents.

He waits for life to have meaning as the Wizarding World recovers. He gets kind of desperate when Ginny starts planning their wedding, and he still feels empty. When not even Teddy gives him something to hold onto, he knows there’s something wrong.

It’s Luna who sheds light on the problem.

“You’re at a crossroads. The fire is burning you to ash. You will either blow away in the wind or turn into glass,” she tells him with wide, sorrowful eyes.

Desperate, he looks up at the sky, unable to meet her gaze any longer.

He wants to deny that he’s dying—not in body but in spirit—but the words don’t come. He feels the light smoldering in the pits of his soul, beautifully, warmly, and devouring.

“What do I do?” He asks, licking his suddenly too dry lips.

“Live,” is all Luna says.

She doesn’t say anything more than that, choosing instead to talk about Ron and Hermione’s impending wedding.

Luna’s never let him down before. He takes her advice and talks a surprised Ginny into an early marriage. Their wedding takes place exactly a year after the end of the war amongst well-wishers and exasperated relatives.

He loves Ginny; he knows this. He is the happiest he’s ever been in a long time.

And yet.

The party outside the Weasley home is loud. He thinks he can hear the sound of a dragon roaring. He wishes he could go check and see if there truly is a dragon, but he’s being forced to wait in Ron’s old room until the ceremony actually begins.

Thankfully, Ron has decided to keep him company with all the fluster of a big brother who can’t seem to decide whether to grin or to scowl.

It’s kind of funny, really. Ron flutters between threatening him, congratulating him, and threatening Ginny without even realizing it.

He fiddles with the watch given to him by his soon-to-be mother-in-law as Ron goes on another teary-eyed rant. He traces the face and thinks,

_I just need more time is all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an idea I've been chewing for a while. Don't know when the next part will be written or if it'll be continued at all.
> 
> For anyone following Together to the Future, yes, I'm still working on it. I've been hit hard by one of _those_ English teachers. Being told hard work and "natural talent" does not make for a good writer...is a bit disheartening. Still, once I'm done with that class, I should be back on schedule!


	2. Chapter 2

Life with Ginny is amazing. He couldn’t be happier to wake up beside her every day. Sure Grimmauld Place is a little gloomy, but they’re going to be moving out soon. They’ve already picked out a cozy little cottage. If he can survive Voldemort for years, he can survive a house for a few months.

This is what he tells everyone.

In truth, the walls seem to be caving in slowly, day by day. Not even Kreacher’s spirited cleaning and removal of house elf heads make his stay there any better.

He wonders how Ginny can pretend there’s nothing wrong with living in the Black’s house, temporary or not. Wonders if he’s the only one who can hear the screams coming from the top floor and the laughter from the drawing room.

Kreacher, scowling and sneering, tells him there’s nothing left in the house to drive someone insane. The Order removed every curse and dark object. The only thing left that could make those noises are—

“Blood traitors and filith!” Walburga screams, having been woken up by dropped groceries.

“Ah, shut it you old hag!” Ginny screams back, scrambling to pick up the milk.

—the paintings.

While the paintings in the drawing room could be lying to him about the laughter, there aren’t any paintings on the top level. There are no explanations for the screams.

Is he going insane? Or is there someone else in this house?

“Reckon there’s a ghost here?” He asks casually over dinner one day. “The Blacks had this house for years.”

“You’d know if there was a ghost, Harry,” Ginny tells him with a roll of her eyes. “You’d see them.”

He doesn’t bother telling her about the sounds, choosing instead to stuff a piece of bread into his mouth. It tastes like ashes on his tongue, but as Ginny made it from scratch, he compliments her. He tells himself that her face lighting up is worth the hassle of eating another piece.

His mouth still tastes like ashes even when he eats Kreacher’s amazing pot roast.

Two more months, he tells himself as laughter echoes from the hallway, two more months and then he can put this behind him. He tries to focus on the book in front of him while waiting for Ginny to get back from Quidditch practice. It’s a Defence Against the Dark Arts book; he needs to brush up on it if he wants to become an Auror.

“Stop lying.”

It’s a whisper spoken so closely to his ear that makes him jump and flick out his wand. A destructive spell is on the tip of his tongue, but there’s no one there. He spins around the dining room, wild eyed and ready to fight.

A concerned Kreacher pops in, head bowed and hands held out in nonthreatening deference.

“Do you sense anyone? Anyone at all?” He snarls, short on patience.

“No one, Master,” Kreacher replies.

He slumps back into the chair, trusting the house elf over his own instincts. There’s no need to make a bigger fool out of himself. Kreacher watches him with wary but trusting eyes, and he feels guilty.

“You don’t need to bow,” he says, gesturing for the house elf to stand. “Really, don’t.”

He rubs his face tiredly. He could be going crazy, or this could be a repeat of the basilisk. Either way, he can’t bother Ginny with this—he can’t destroy her fragile happiness, he tells himself—but there’s no reason to hide this from the house elf.

“Kreacher, you’ve probably guessed, but there’s something wrong,” he begins, one hand over his face to keep from seeing Kreacher’s reaction. “It began when we moved in to Grimmauld.”

He has to pause because no, that’s not right is it?

“Actually,” he says, shifting his story, “it began when Sirius died.”

He tells Kreacher everything. Everything he couldn’t tell Ginny or Hermione and Ron comes flowing out as if bursting from a dam. He orders Kreacher to remain silent about what he says, and it’s a relief to know that his secret remains. He feels only a little guilty about it.

_“You’re at a crossroads. The fire is burning you to ash. You will either blow away in the wind or turn into glass.”_

“Fire, fire, fire,” Kreacher mutters upon hearing Luna’s cryptic advice.

He doesn’t think much about it at the time; he’s too busy stewing in his own self-pity over marrying Ginny too early. She deserves better than his broken mess, and he should have never tried to use their marriage to fix himself.

“That’s it,” he finishes telling the house elf. “I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s never a good thing.”

Kreacher disappears with a promise to find something. He shakes his head, knowing that there’s nothing the house elf can do. Fondness courses through him, and his lips twist into the first real smile he’s had in a long time.

“I’m home!” Ginny’s Patronus emerges through the wall to announce

His smile falls as the numbness returns.

The days pass by, and the whisper doesn’t come back. Kreacher keeps busy, leaving him mostly alone in the house every day. His daily walks and visit to friends become fewer, and he takes to his defense books with increased fervor.

“Harry, they’re not going to stop you from being an Auror just because you don’t know a spell from the Seventeenth century,” Ginny tells him in exasperation.

He pointedly ignores her to turn the next page. He misses the strange look on her face entirely, too wrapped up in reading about mind manipulation. It doesn’t end up being what he’s looking for, but it’s interesting nonetheless.

There has to be something written about what’s happening to him, he thinks. Reading always works for Hermione. Surely there’s something that can point him in the right direction.

“It’s in the basement.”

His head snaps up quickly followed by his wand. He looks around, but there’s nothing. A feeling of fear strikes his heart before fading away. Wand held in a tight grip, he bites back the cry for Kreacher and heads towards the back of the house.

He opens the door to the basement with a grim determination. A pristine kitchen meets his eyes, and he looks for something out of place. Something shines from the shelf at the back of the room. He cautiously approaches, ready to curse and flee.

There on the shelf is a note and a—

“Gun,” he breathes out in shock.

He stares at the muggle weapon before hesitantly reaching for the note. Having only ever seen a gun on the telly, he moves slowly and carefully as to not touch the weapon.

He experiences a shock greater than the one before it.

“This,” he sputters, “this is my handwriting.”

“ _Stop lying to yourself and find the sky. Cut your ties while you still can before it’s too late_ ,” the note reads.

He doesn’t know what to do, what to say.

“Kreacher!” He calls out desperately.

The house elf has no idea how the note and gun got there, and he’s left staring at the two items for the rest of the day. He ends up hiding them in Sirius’ room before Ginny comes home; it’s the only room she never goes in.

He gets a new message each day from then on. It’s never in the same place, and each note reads as either a warning or an instruction on gun use.

The notes are in his handwriting, but he’s never used a gun in his life. Kreacher tries but can never find out how they keep appearing. He’s at the end of his rope.

One day, he wakes up to a message lying on his bathroom sink. The gun that’s supposed to be in Sirius’ old dresser rests next to it.

“ _Watch her when she sends Kreacher out. Keep this on you_ ,” the note says.

An odd feeling drops to the pit of his stomach. He dresses for the chilly morning; against common sense, he places the gun into his coat pocket. He stuffs the invisibility cloak into the coat’s extended pocket.

“I’m going out for a walk,” he tells Ginny who’s in the middle of reading the newspaper.

“Oh, that’s good,” Ginny tells him far too happily. “I’m going to send Kreacher out for some stuff for lunch. It’s a surprise!”

He smiles stiffly and kisses her lightly on the cheek.

“Looking forward to it,” he lies.

He pretends to leave. He slips silently back into the house, keeping the invisibility cloak over him the entire time. At first, nothing really suspicious happens, and the painful knot in his chest begins loosening.

Then he watches Ginny go up to their bedroom to grab a vial from her bottom drawer. She marches to the basement, and he follows her with a held breath. He stops at the door and thinks about running away.

He can’t though; he’ll never run if given the choice. He stuffs the cloak back into the extended pocket, and pushes the basement door open, heart beating in his throat.

Going down the stairs feels like walking to the gallows. His feet stop at the kitchen and the sight that greets him is unbelievable.

“Ginny,” he says quietly.

Startled, his wife drops the vial, glass shattering against the floor. The liquid rushes out, missing its intended target—the pot of soup only he eats.

“Harry, it’s not what it looks like—” Ginny gasps out.

Betrayal, his mind screams. He looks from the vial to his wife and laughs. He reaches into his pocket intending to grab his wand to apparate. His hand bumps into something metal.

His hand wraps around the handle. He closes his eyes and stops thinking.

She never screamed.

“Italy,” Kreacher tells him while snapping the blood out of his clothes, “Italy, Master.”

He nods dazedly, and holds an arm out. Kreacher grabs him and they disappear with a snap. He never lets go of the gun.

(“Where’s Harry? Where is he?” Hermione screams over Ron’s wails.

“We don’t,” the Auror chokes as Hermione’s wand makes threatening movements, “we don’t know. Whoever did this probably took him.”

“Are there any clues?” George asks lowly, arms hooked around Ron in a vice grip.

“Only the bullets and a broken vial of Calming Draught,” the Auror says, shrinking under George’s unwavering stare.

“I’ll find him,” George says darkly, “and then I’ll make them pay.”

Luna looks up at the sky, pale-faced and with wet eyes. Wilting flowers shake in her trembling grip.

“Maria gratia plena. Ave ave dominus, dominus tecum,” Luna sings quietly.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this is not a Ginny-bashing fic. I don't do bashing in any of my stories. That said, hoped you enjoyed reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Italy is beautiful; it’s sunny and green with a hint of sea breeze drifting on the wind. Well, he assumes as much from the view outside his window. He hasn’t been brave enough to leave the house yet.

Apparently the Blacks were ambitious in claiming real estate they took a fancy to, and there are a dozen of tiny abandoned houses all over the world. He’s not surprised in the least that one of these houses resides in Sicily, Italy.

The Blacks, fond of art and tradition, couldn’t resist a vacation home on such a well-known historical island. They were even fonder of taking things that didn’t belong to them, he thinks, tracing the rim of an ancient Roman-styled vase. Naively, he hopes it’s a replica.

The house is small for one belonging to wizards; there are only six rooms. He’s thankful though. He’s able to put up protective enchantments in one go even if it takes a lot out of him. Kreacher enhances the spells, and between the two of them, they have working wards.

He does nothing after that accomplishment, does nothing but sit by the fireplace staring at ancient pottery. The gun rests beside him the entire time. He doesn’t allow it to leave his sight.

Kreacher is the only reason he doesn’t think about pulling the trigger a second time.

“The house is too cold,” he mutters.

A fire is lit with a snap of the fingers. He leans back into the luxurious chair, taking comfort in the heat. He lets out an appreciative mumble, and Kreacher pops away with a promise to come back soon.

The fire resembles Ginny’s hair, he muses absentmindedly, especially when she drank Pepper-up potions. He rubs a hand over his chest in an effort to soothe the ache.

Is this a side effect of her potions, he wonders. This feeling in his chest that takes his breath away, this _pain_. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he can no longer breathe.

He reaches for the Calming Draught that sits next to the gun. His fingers freeze, and his breathing becomes uneven. The shine of the glass bottle gives him a thought: perhaps Ginny had only—

No. No, that’s just her blasted potions speaking.

He won’t believe that she was doing anything else other than using love potions on him. He can’t because if it turns out she was innocent—if it turns out he’s nothing but a murderer—

“Master, he wishes to meet with you,” Kreacher arrives with a pop.

Time unfreezes for him, and he uncorks the bottle and downs it in one smooth motion. An unsettling feeling of calmness washes over him; the troubling thoughts are pushed to the back of his mind.

“Let’s go,” he utters coldly. “Stay hidden when we get there.”

He shoves the gun back into his pocket and holds his hand out. Kreacher apparates them away. He’s so numb that he barely feels the discomfort of being pushed through a rubber tube.

Italy’s main wizarding world community happens to also be in Sicily; they land outside of Mirto. Kreacher stays hidden, and he strides through the town with the invisibility cloak over his shoulders.

Kreacher’s whispered instructions lead him to a church. Though the building looks old and worn down, it’s easy to see the care that goes into the upkeep. He stands in front of the heavy wooden door, taking shallow breaths.

“Are wizards the same as sinners?” He asks softly.

“Master?” Kreacher inquires.

“It’s nothing,” he says, pushing the door open.

It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s responsible for so many deaths; if he catches on fire, he deserves it.

His movements don’t go unnoticed. Startled patrons move towards the door with wide eyes. He navigates around them and heads to the back of the church. A large, old painting waits for him.

“Tap your wand against it and step through,” Kreacher instructs.

He knows that the wizarding world intertwines with the muggle one and that old artifacts are fair game. It doesn’t stop him from holding his breath as he reaches out to the painting, part of him cringing at accidentally ruining something so precious.

He passes through the painting without incident. The world that awaits him makes him stop and stare. Ancient Rome stares back, and for a moment, he’s eleven again with his jaw dropped wide open.

White buildings with elaborate, colorful drawings etched into them stand tall, supported by beautiful pillars. Men and women stroll around with tunics and togas, hair twisted into amazing braids and styles. He almost wishes for a thousand eyes to see it all.

“Near the end of the main street there is an alleyway with a hidden pub. That is where the filth is waiting,” Kreacher whispers in his ear.

With that, the childish wonder vanishes and the familiar numbness sets back in. Without taking the invisibility cloak off, he follows the wide road keeping a careful eye out. No one seems to pay attention to his hidden form, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know he’s there.

It’s a long road; the street turns dirtier the more he walks. The buildings become less clean and beautiful, and he knows he’s almost there when a large white wall looms over him. He’s pretty sure the wall borders the entire community.

“Here,” Kreacher hisses.

Sure enough, the alleyway leads him to a rotting door. He can’t comprehend the symbols painted above the door, but he understands the meaning of a figure knocking back a cup.

He takes off the cloak, squares his shoulders, and opens the door. To be honest, he expects a seedy-looking pub like the Hog’s Head. Instead, pieces of artwork pepper the room, and matching wooden tables and stools surround a large fireplace. The homely atmosphere leaves him momentarily dumbfounded.

“My friend, over here!” A heavily accented voice rings out.

Ignoring the eyes digging into him by customers frozen mid drink, he goes over to the table closest to the fireplace. A smile greets him along with a wink. He takes a seat across from the man without a word.

“So cold,” the man says sorrowfully.

“You wanted to talk. Talk,” he bites out, resisting the urge to keep one hand in his pocket.

Brown eyes stare into his. When he doesn’t respond, the man snaps his fingers and says something in a different language. A server stops by with a drink that’s placed before him, and he feels the air around him shudder. He reaches for his wand without hesitation.

“Easy there,” the man holds up a hand, “just a little spell to keep this conversation to ourselves. It’s standard with the drink.”

Aware of the eyes still on him, he puts his hands on the table and leans back. He’s noticed that the men in this area exclusively wear tunics. The man across from him wears a toga. Wrinkled brown eyes narrow at him with an unbending smile.

What makes you special, he silently wonders.

“I am Sertor Fonteius Rogatus,” the man introduces himself. “Your missives lack eloquence, but it’s not every day I am contacted from foreigners about _fiamme_.”

Of course the messages lacked eloquence. Kreacher somehow wrote them. He wisely chooses against saying so.

“Sertor—” he begins.

“Rogatus,” the man interrupts tersely.

“Right, Rogatus,” he says without missing a beat, “what can you tell me about this fire?”

It takes all his self-control to avoid shaking the man like a rabid loon. To avoid shouting out, “ _Tell me. I’ve just killed my wife. Tell me what I want to know.”_

“My friend, what you ask for is dangerous knowledge. If you think I will just tell you because you asked, you are quite the fool.”

He squeezes his hands together. For a dangerous moment, he envisions squeezing the trigger on the gun still in his pocket. He grits his teeth, wondering why the Calming Draught seems to have stopped working.

“What do you want?” He asks.

Rogatus with that ever annoying smile winks again at him. The man takes a long sip from his drink, and he feels his fingernails digging into skin.

“While I would like to know why Harry Potter is here asking about such things, I have something else I’d like from you,” Rogatus eventually says.

“How do you?” He chokes out.

His scar is hidden by his hair; he made sure of it. His face shouldn’t have even made it to Italy.

“Mirto is a very isolated place. Most magic-weavers here don’t even realize there is a magicless Mirto. I am not one of them. I know many things,” Rogatus says. “Which is what brings you here to me.”

“What is it that you want?” He asks again.

“You foreign magic-weavers always desire to know our secrets—our spells—without giving your own up,” Rogatus tells him with a tilt of the head.

“You want to know spells,” he says in realization.

“I want a teacher,” Rogatus corrects him. “I want a teacher that knows foreign defense spells. A teacher that abides by our laws and cares for our children.”

(Books line the walls, and piles of them are stacked to the ceiling. He searches for the items on his list, and he’s thankful that Flourish and Blotts is relatively empty today. He does his best to tune out the annoying shadow behind him.

“Harry,” Neville tells him once more, “you don’t have to keep fighting.”

 _So You Want to be an Auror?_ shines in gold lettering from a pile on his left. He grabs it and looks for another book.

“Hogwarts has a spot for Defense against the Dark Arts. I hear offing Dark Lords is extra credit,” Neville tries again.

He finds another book on a shelf. He thinks about finding the third one another day. Maybe he should look for sturdy wand holsters.

“Just think about it, alright?” Neville says softly.

He thinks about it so much it hurts. Memories of the D.A. tear through his head like radio static. Every time he remembers how much he liked teaching, he remembers how he was never good enough. Remembers Lavender and Colin’s still bodies.)

“I’ll do it, but I’m going to need more than just information,” he says darkly.

He wants to take it back immediately, but this information is too important to pass up because of feelings. Rogatus takes another long sip of his drink, and he avoids looking the man in the eye again.

“Of course,” Rogatus smiles, “in order to put you in a position to be trusted with such perilous information and our children, we must turn you into a true citizen of _Italia_. Hiding your identity would be par the course.”

His heart nearly stops. He knows, he thinks. The damn smile seems to only brighten.

“Faustus Artoria Tutor. That will be your new name,” Rogatus says. “The Artorias will agree to adopt you without any questions asked so long as you buy them off.”

“Faustus?” He tries out.

It feels awkward on his tongue. The name also feels familiar though he can’t pinpoint why. Something Hermione might have said about a book a long time ago.

“Don’t ever let anyone call you Faustus unless they are calling you Faustus Artoria,” Rogatus tells him sternly. “Have some class.”

“Then what would you have me go by?” He says irritably.

“Tutor,” Rogatus smirks. “That is what you are after all.”


	4. Chapter 4

The wind feels nice, he thinks, closing his eyes. There’s a salty scent to it from the nearby ocean. It’s so different from the pollution of London that it makes his lungs hurt.

“Tutor, where are you?” A childish voice rings out.

He gets up from the shade of the tree, stretching with a sigh. It’s back to work then. His student is supposed to be taking a break, but the boy has a hard time sitting still.

Despite resting in the grass, the toga wrapped around him stays clean and neatly in place. When he first wore the heavy, woolen material, he had almost decided to burn it immediately. Thankfully for his sanity, someone took pity and showed him how to properly spell the garb. He still catches the white material in doorways, but at least it covers the uncomfortably short tunic underneath.

“Tutor!”

“Marcus, didn’t your mother tell you to be patient?” He asks the boy running up to him.

Bright, blue eyes and a mischievous smile meet his words. The boy shakes shaggy blond hair, and he fights the urge to transfigure a stick into a comb. It’d be a useless gesture: not five minutes would go by before that hair became a mess again.

“Mama said many things. If I did everything she told me to, I’d never sleep!” Marcus exclaims.

Well, true enough, he supposes. Marcus’ mother would be a slave driver if she wasn’t too busy with spell research to ensure everyone was following her orders, and as she’s unable to keep an eye on her energetic, curious child, the job falls to him.

“Let’s get back to the lesson then since you can’t let me enjoy some peace and quiet,” he says.

“I’ll be good! I will be as quiet as a mouse,” Marcus promises while struggling to maintain a straight face.

“You mean as quiet as a drunk troll,” he snorts. “Come on then, go get your tactics textbook. We’ll do a practical lesson afterwards.”

Marcus rushes off with an excited whoop, and not for the first time, he marvels at how easy he finds his new life. Getting up in the morning to breakfast that Kreacher cooked, meeting up with his student for a long day of teaching before heading to the pub for a relaxing drink by a heatless fire—it’s too good for a murderer like him.

He waits for the inevitable, for the moment the illusion of a peaceful life shatters. As a precaution, he keeps the gun maintained and attached to his belt invisibly, but the days pass by without incident. The memory of red hair and a freckled smile begin fading away.

“My friend, you are busy as always,” Rogatus tells him over a drink.

It’s the same pub as before, but this time he can read the sign outside. Hardened Flask was not his first guess for a name. He swirls the wine in his cup and different spices assault his nose. He thinks he can spell cinnamon.

“I have a lot of work,” he says, thinking of his student.

While trouble tends to follow the name Harry Potter, Marcus actively seeks it. He’s had to use stun spells on bees simply because his student wanted to see if the insects would sting. It’s impressive, really.

“The Servilius child,” Rogatus nods, “a handful I hear. Ah, but you must have impressed his mother greatly for her to be willing to allow you domain over his education. That is no small feat.”

“I think she just wanted a babysitter,” he says flatly.

It’s embarrassing to remember, but with his brain torn apart by a language-learning concoction, he had accidentally wandered into a house that he mistook for a library. There, he met the Servilius family where he ended up in a debate over which was better for children: theoretical or practical magic.

“Rogatus, when are you going to tell me about these Flames?” He asks abruptly.

Luna’s words haunt him still. Though it sounds far-fetched, that there some kind of cursed fire in Italy that may be affecting him, he trusts his instincts. He needs to know whatever Rogatus knows.

He needs to know if that’s why he’s going crazy.

Rogatus leans back silently, and he rankles over the man’s considering gaze. He’s been here for more than two months; he’s dyed his hair and got his vision fixed. He’s followed every order and threatening smile with a nod. He deserves to know.

“It’s not yet time. You still stick out like a daisy among roses, and the Artorias are still covering your tracks,” Rogatus says. “This is dangerous knowledge. You need to be able to blend in perfectly, or you will wind up dead.”

“When will that be then? When I’ve got nothing left to give you?” He says through clenched teeth.

It’s crossed his mind a few times that Rogatus has no plans to actually tell him, that the man is simply leading him on. He briefly imagines the kind of reaction a gun to the face would get before disregarding the thought. He’s not desperate enough to attempt threats or Veritaserum just yet.

“Peace, my friend. I am simply being cautious. You’ll get your information as I am a man of my word,” Rogatus says.

“I can’t wait forever,” he warns.

Rogatus accepts his words with a nod. Perhaps he owes the man his full trust, but time’s running out for him. He can feel his soul growing dimmer day by day.

(Would the dementors be able to feed off of him, or would he be considered undead?)

“Come, tell me about your day. How have those new potions been working for you?” Rogatus says, smile firmly in place.

Mirto’s main street is Vicus Strios; it runs in one line with every important building resting on it. He spends most of his free time exploring it; the street is just that long. Vicus Strios runs from upper-class to lower-class, and he finds himself more comfortable with the buildings planted firmly in the middle.

He has a favorite shop; he tends to frequent Knowledge in Sanctuary, a quiet bookshop ran by a friendly lady with a sweet face. There’s nothing better than grabbing a book or a scroll and sitting in the corner of the shop, surrounded by piles of paper.

Hermione would love it here, he thinks with a pang.

“Anything interesting today, Sabina?” He asks, resting an elbow on the countertop.

“Please, it’s just Irene. You come here so often, you may as well be family,” the shopkeeper says before rummaging through a box under the counter.

He makes a pleased noise as Irene sets out three ornate scrolls. Though more expensive than books, scrolls are written on enchanted paper that are attached to two rods. With a tap of the wand, the paper moves between the rods like a film; he can even change the speed and rewind the scroll. It’s incredibly convenient.

“This one is a classic epic,” Irene points to the leftmost scroll before moving to the one in the middle, “and this one is the _History of Oracles_.”

Both scrolls are beautifully made, but it is the last one that is the most eye-catching. Compared to the other two, the scroll looks old. Its papyrus is yellowed and cracked, and the wooden rods look faded. His interest is piqued.

“A customer was cleaning out his storage and sold this to me,” Irene says, noticing his gaze. “I glanced through it and found it was an old defensive magic text. You are teaching the young Servilius, yes? I thought you might find it useful.”

Something about the scroll pulls at his gut. He doesn’t even have to think about it.

“I’ll take it,” he says.

“Fifty-five orichalus,” the shopkeeper tells him, and he staggers at the amount.

Irene takes out a worn, plain box for the scroll, and he begins the laborious task of going through an extended pouch for fifty-five coins. Shiny, orange coins are thrown onto the counter one after the other, and he mentally calculates the amount of galleons wasted.

It’s roughly seventy-five galleons by his calculations. He’s lucky that Marcus’ mother pays well. This scroll better be worth it.

“Enjoy and no spellcasting in the shop!” Irene hands him the case with a smile.

He settles down into his usual corner, and carefully lays the scroll onto the small table, piles of books hiding him from view. He taps it with his wand, and the words stream by slowly as his brain tries to connect them into something legible.

Rogatus might have something of a point about blending in better; even with the potions and spells reinforcing his brain, he still struggles to speak or read fluently. This scroll uses older terms and words as well, making it all the harder.

Wait a minute. He freezes the scroll and rewinds it until he sees a familiar word blending in among foreign ones. He mouths the word silently before looking in Irene’s direction warily. There’s no way the shopkeeper knows what she just sold him. He looks down at the scroll again in disbelief.

Legilimency.

A whole section is written on it and looking further there’s another dedicated to Occlumency. He goes through the entire scroll, slowly and intensely. Dark magic is prominent, and he recognizes a form of the Cruciatus Curse when he sees it. _Crucius_ , the passage reads, _the pain causing technique_.

Putting the scroll in its case, he heads home, heavy in thought. Irene may have missed the darker writings closer to the end of the text, but the scroll really has some useful spells in it. He places the case by the bookshelf, and thinks _maybe_.

“Kreacher, how about some tea?” He asks the old house elf.

Kreacher disappears eagerly, and he runs a hand through his sandy brown hair with a sigh. Attempting Occlumency training again is a nice thought, but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. His first try with Snape had been a disaster, and he needs more than a text passage.

(But Legilimency might be easier, his mind whispers treacherously. He’s already done it on Voldemort, already knows what it feels like.)

“Tea will be done soon. The filthy liar sent this,” Kreacher announces with a scowl.

He accepts the package, and the house elf disappears again, muttering about “no-good con artists.” It makes him smile to hear Kreacher so worked up over Rogatus. He holds onto that feeling of humor when he considers that his new present will probably sour his mood.

Opening the box, he pulls out a letter and a small bottle. More potions to change his body then, how bloody excellent. He skims the letter and nearly tears it apart.

“I lament your hair’s ability to be anything other than a mess, but that is something we can work with,” he reads. “What cannot continue are your eyes for they are too noticeable. Keep pouring this into your eyes little by little until they turn darker. Brown would be good.”

He doesn’t bother reading the rest of the directions, choosing to throw everything in his hand onto the floor. It had been hard just dying his hair and losing his glasses. To lose his eyes—his mother’s eyes—is too painful to even think about. He won’t do it.

He goes to bed and dreams about getting caught in Italy. Of the accusatory faces of the Weasleys and his friends. His green eyes, the distorted version of his loved ones tell him, they gave him away. Eyes of a murderer, they cry.

“You don’t deserve my eyes,” his mother says. It is the last thing he hears before waking up.

He springs out of bed and pours the entire bottle into his eyes. It stings something awful, and he cries as the potion goes everywhere, making a mess out of his toilet sink. He keeps a towel over his face and waves away a concerned Kreacher until the pain stops.

He looks into the mirror, and black eyes stare back.


End file.
